


Cigarettes, Alcohol and Other Catastrophes

by Ad_Absurdum



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Smiths
Genre: Crack, M/M, RPS - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:39:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/pseuds/Ad_Absurdum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morrissey is drunk and asks for a cigarette. Also, Andy's bum is apparently very fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cigarettes, Alcohol and Other Catastrophes

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Never happened, all slander and lies.  
>  **A/N:** Andy's talk with his Dad about "Hand in Glove" cover art is, in fact, absolutely true.

_"It was hilarious when he [Morrissey] did get pissed because he'd always want a ciggie. He'd be slurring, 'Gurv me a shigarette'. We'd be like, 'What? You don't smoke!'. He'd be, 'No, gurvusa shigarette!' That's when you knew he'd had too much. Time for bed, Mozzer."_

 _\-- Andy Rourke_

* * *

"Mike, give me a cigarette." Andy reached into his pocket for a box of matches.

"Why is it always me? You could buy your own once in a while, you know? Or ask Johnny." Mike grumbled but took the packet out of the back pocket of his jeans. He shook one cigarette out and like a hawk watched Andy's fingers reaching for it.

"Johnny's not here and I did buy some today. Must've left them in the other jacket." Andy snatched up his required cancer stick of the hour before Mike could change his mind. He lit it up and inhaled deeply and then looked at his cig with a critical eye.

"You could stop cramming them into your back pockets, though. You sit on your arse all day and they're always curved."

Andy tried to straighten the thing, with little to no success.

"You don't like my arse-curved smokes, you get your own." Mike gave him an evil look and took a gulp of his beer.

"I want a cigarette too." The sudden (and remarkably clearly pronounced) announcement came from Morrissey, who up to this point had been forlornly staring into space. Now, though, he looked with avid interest at the smoke curling up from the burning tip of the cigarette in Andy's fingers. The greed in his stare was almost palpable.

The bassist groaned and the drummer heaved a sigh. "You don't smoke, Morrissey."

It was always the same. After Mozzer had poured into himself a certain amount of alcohol, he asked for a smoke - no exceptions. In a way it was reassuring. You always knew when Morrissey had enough and it was time to send him to bed. And that time was definitely now.

"No, but listen." Moz directed his drunken gaze at the drummer and repeated with the stubbornness of the well and truly plastered. "Give me a cigarette."

Mike could do stubborn too. "No. You don't smoke and you're completely sloshed. Time to go to bed."

Morrissey frowned first at Mike and then at the empty wine bottles in front of him.

"You're drunker than I am. You've drunk the whole wine."

Beside them, Andy snorted a giggle.

"That was you and-- Oh, why do I bother?" Mike sighed again. "Andy, take him upstairs."

"Why me?" Andy asked at the same time Morrissey said "I don't need anyone taking me upstairs" in a haughty tone. "I can take myself. I'm that selffishent." Moz frowned. That word somehow didn't sound quite like it should.

"Because Johnny's not here," Mike told Andy. "And you," he jabbed the singer with an accusing look, "do you remember your room's number?"

Morrissey blinked. "Twenty five?" he risked an answer.

"Not quite."

Mike nodded towards Andy. "Take him up and I'll give you another smoke."

"Fair enough." Andy got up.

"I want a smoke too." Morrissey crossed his arms. "Why does _he_ get one and I don't?"

"Because you don't smoke." Andy laid his hand on Morrissey's shoulder.

"Really?" Moz looked up at him as if only now registering the explanation.

"Really." The cigarette in the corner of Andy's mouth bobbed with his words, and Morrissey's eyes followed the glowing end.

Andy noticed.

"But if you want, I'll give you one upstairs. All right?"

Morrissey smiled. "All right." He got up and started towards the hotel's lifts.

"There ya go." Andy patted Morrissey's back and then glanced towards Mike. "I'll be right back. Don't you touch my beer."

Mike waved his hand at him. "Yeah, whatever."

In truth, Andy didn't mind being Morrissey's escort that much. When the singer was drunk, the edges of his unapproachable persona softened and there was always that little smile playig about his lips. At such times Morrissey seemed downright easygoing. Pliant almost.

And he was never so drunk he tripped over his feet. That was always a plus. Andy just wasn't up to carrying the bloke - however thin he might be - around.

Andy took the room keys from the receptionist and steered Mozzer towards the opening doors of one of the lifts.

They got in and Andy leant a shoulder against a wall, one hand behind his back, the other reaching up to pluck the cigarette from between his lips. He'd never quite managed Johnny's trick of smoking a whole fag without taking it from his mouth once.

He stared absentmindedly at the floor.

Morrissey giggled.

Andy looked up. "What?" He frowned.

"You look like Jim French's photo," his bandmate informed him with a slight slur in his voice and a satisfied smile.

"Whose photo?" Andy frowned even more and Morrissey tsked.

"Kids today. Whatever they teach you in schools?"

Andy stopped frowning and stared at the singer, baffled.

Mozzer sighed. "The _Hand in Glove_ sleeve. You remember that, don't you?"

"Y-yeah." Andy's eyes widened and he stuttered a little as he remembered the sleeve in question. In detail. It was rather hard to forget, considering they released the single only three weeks ago and that it caused possibly the most awkward conversation in the Rourke household ever. Andy thought he might never forget his Dad's complete and utter mortification upon seeing the artwork. _"It's a bloke's bum,"_ he'd said, to which Andy could only stammer out an embarrassed _"Yeah"_.

Andy felt a blush creeping up his neck.

"I knew exactly what I wanted on that sleeve," Morrissey meanwhile continued, the smile - or smirk - never leaving his face. "But I couldn't find the picture. I knew I had it somewhere in my room, but couldn't remember where and then I thought in the end we could simply take a picture of you instead."

"What?!" Andy jumped, nearly spitting out his cigarette in shock.

"What?" Morrissey frowned. "You've got a great bum. Mine's too skinny--" he tried to look at his backside, but after two bottles of wine his coordination wasn't very cooperative and he gave up after a couple of unsuccessful attempts. "--and Johnny's too skinny too," he went on. "And I don't know Mike's because he sits on it all day. But you fill those jeans very nicely," Morrissey finished with the utter conviction shining out of his eyes.

Andy could only gape, his face resembling a particularly ripe tomato by now. What the fuck was going on? Was Morrissey coming on to him? And, oh God, what would have happened if Moz hadn't found the picture? Andy's arse would be plastered on that sleeve for all the world to see and his Dad would probably die from embarrassment and Andy together with him and why, the Hell, that damn lift was taking bloody forever to reach their fucking floor?!

Andy stared at Morrissey.

Morrissey stared back at Andy. Expectantly.

Finally he frowned slightly.

"I've just complimented you," he said. "You're supposed to be nice to me now."

"Uh, thank you," Andy blurted the first thing that seemed remotely appropriate. And immediately wanted to smash his forehead against the nearest conveniently hard surface so that he could knock himself out and avoid the rest of the conversation.

Morrissey smiled amiably. "You're welcome, but I was rather thinking you'd give me a cigarette."

Andy blinked.

"You bastard."

Morrissey grinned. If it had been anyone else, Andy's fist would be rearranging their nose right about now.

"Was that all just to get me to let you smoke?" Andy exhaled a little shakily.

Morrissey adopted thinking expression.

"Sort of." He grinned again and Andy's heart softened a little at that grin. "But it was also absolutely true."

Andy groaned and banged his head against the wall.

"Why me?" he mumbled into the wall. "Dear Lord, why me?"

"What do you mean why me?" Moz asked, clearly puzzled.

Andy looked at hm with one eye.

"You always wear those tight jeans and you're always in front of me when we go up on stage. I'd have to be blind to not see the... potential."

Andy had no idea such an innocent word could sound so dirty. He moved away till his back was pressed into the lift's corner.

"Are you coming on to me?" he finally asked.

"Don't be ridiculous," Morrissey scoffed, watching Andy's manoeuvres with a disdainful eye. "Of course not."

"Oh." Andy straightened a little from his slouch. "All right, then."

He cleared his throat and took a deep drag on his cigarette. His hand did _not_ shake. Really. Not even a bit.

When the lift chimed softly, announcing their floor, Morrissey moved swiftly ahead. Andy trailed behind, thinking that maybe he should start wearing longer shirts. Or baggy trousers.

"Keys." Morrissey's imperious tone sounded in Andy's ears.

"Huh? Oh, right." He reached into his pocket and handed the singer his keys.

"Eight hundred and twenty five," Morrissey murmured. "I _thought_ so."

"Right. So I'm going back downstairs. You'll be all right, right?" Andy asked, still a little unsure of what had just happened in the lift. He took another deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a while before exhaling.

Suddenly, and with astounding speed and accuracy for someone who was drunk off his arse, Morrissey moved and Andy's world tilted as he was pinned to a wall behind him and had his breath practically sucked out of his lungs.

"Mmph!" Andy flailed, trying to push his clearly insane bandmate away, but Morrissey was already stepping back, doubling over and coughing violently.

"That's awful," he managed between the coughs.

Andy clapped his hand over his own mouth in a completely useless gesture. It was a little late and besides, there was no denying the fact he'd just been snogged. By a bloke.

"Don't ever let me smoke again," Morrissey rasped, finally straightening up.

Andy waved his free hand, the nearly finished cigarette flying in a graceful arc from his fingers to land in a potted plant decorating the hotel's corridor. Dead centre. If Andy had been less distraught, he might have appreciated the precision.

"You!" He finally removed his hand from his mouth and pointed an accusing finger at Morrissey. "You kissed me!"

"I did not." Morrissey made a face, his tone mildly offended. "That was second-mouth smoking."

Andy felt a headache coming. "What?"

"I don't know how you can inhale such a vile substance," Morrissey continued, opening the door to his room and not paying Andy's words the slightest bit of attention.

"Also, if I wanted to kiss you, I could do it a lot better." The door finally opened and Morrissey paused at the threshold, taking in Andy's shocked expression.

"Would you like me to kiss you?" he asked politely.

"I..." Andy flushed again because, damn it, the troublemaker in him wanted to say 'yes' just so he could call the unflappable bastard in front of him on that later. Somehow, though, he couldn't bring himself to actually say the word.

Morrissey peered at him owlishly and then yawned.

"I'll tell you what, when you decide one way or the other, let me know. I feel like I'm about to fall asleep right where I stand." So saying, Mozzer went into his room and closed the door in Andy's face.

When Andy came back downstairs, he headed straight for the bar to order a shot of vodka. And then another. Then he slowed down and with a vodka and orange sat at the table where Mike was currently charming two girls.

"You all right, mate?" Mike asked, seeing Andy's sheet-white complexion.

"Yeah, sure, why wouldn't I be?" Andy felt the tips of his ears going red again as Mike's two companions looked at him with interest.

Mike raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Don't know, but you look like you've seen a ghost."

One of the girls slid closer to Andy. "Do you think there are ghosts in this hotel? That would be quite scary, wouldn't it?"

Andy smiled wanly. He didn't need ghosts to get a scare of his life. No, all it took was Morrissey talking about his arse.

He shifted slightly on his chair and took a gulp of his drink.

"Do you think Morrissey is a good kisser?" the other girl asked out of the blue.

Andy only barely avoided choking to death on his drink, while Mike laughed loudly.

"He's celibate, you know. But I'm a _very_ good kisser." Mike waggled his eyebrows and the girl giggled.

"Yeah but, like, kissing is not sex, so he could, like, kiss people and still be celibate, right?"

Andy stopped coughing, vitally interested in the answer himself. He should have asked Moz about that, but during his epic freak-out the thought somehow slipped his mind.

"I have no idea, but my room is next to his, so you could ask him that yourself tomorrow morning."

The girl's eyes widened in excitement.

"And, hey, _I'm_ not celibate so we could nicely spend the time waiting."

Andy wanted to roll his eyes. Did Mike think the girl would fall for that line?

"Okay."

Oh. Apparently she would.

"See you later, mate." Mike and the girl got up from the table.

"Yeah, later."

Andy glanced to his side. The girl shifted still closer to him and smiled.

"So, do you have a room here too?"

Her lipstick was blood red, her smile far too wide and her eyes entirely the wrong colour.

"Yeah."

Andy looked into his drink. His eyelids were heavy with unslept hours and his mind carefully blank. He didn't have the slightest desire to move.

"Are you gonna show me?"

Andy swallowed the last of the alcohol and put the empty glass on the table.

"Sure." He got up before he could change his mind. "Come on."

He hoped the girl wasn't the sort who got mad at you if you accidentally moaned the wrong name.


End file.
